


Guilt Trips

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-04-15
Updated: 2001-04-15
Packaged: 2018-11-20 11:22:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11334693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Mulder, Scully and Skinner dwell on their thoughts and actions following a near-fatal mishap in North Carolina.





	Guilt Trips

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Guilt Trips by m. butterfly

Guilt Trips  
by m. butterfly  
  
Category: M/Sk  
Rating: R for m/m affection, language  
Spoilers: Field Trip, SR 819, One Son  
Archive: Anywhere--just leave my name on it  
Summary: Mulder, Scully and Skinner dwell on their thoughts and actions following a near-fatal mishap in North Carolina.  
Author's Notes: I was so happy to see Mr. Skinner back in the swing of things (finally) that I considered doing a follow-up story to "Field Trip." Then, when a challenge to write one came up on one of the lists, the die was cast. If you don't agree with my opinion of whose hallucinations were whose, sorry--but dem's da breaks. If you *do* agree and are interested in my other slash offerings, feel free to check out my website: http://Skinner.Mulder.com/walfox.  
Feedback is always appreciated (and answered) at .  
Acknowledgments: Many thanks to Sonia Moss for issuing the challenge in the first place, and to Michael for his scientific expertise. Huge bouquets of virtual long-stems to Lucy Snowe for lightning-fast beta-reading, excellent advice, and endless encouragement.

* * *

Guilt Trips  
by m. butterfly

The night nurse had no trouble finding him.

He was where he'd been ever since her shift started seven hours ago. All day, too, from what she'd been told. At first she thought he was asleep, but his head came up and his intense dark eyes fixed on her the moment she entered the waiting area. His suit jacket, dirt still caked on the arms, lay on the hard plastic seat beside him. So did his filthy tie. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and she could see there was grime ground into his watch band. She also noticed that he'd cleaned his shoes, but the knees and cuffs of his impeccably tailored trousers wore their soil stains like badges of honour.

"Are you Walter?" she asked quietly.

"Yes." He sprang to his feet with unexpected grace, and the nurse almost gasped. He looked much bigger and broader standing than sitting, and it was rather startling the way the black leather weapon holster contrasted with his bright white shirt. The gruff voice, the big bald head, the glasses--yeah, this was a guy you definitely wanted on your side.

But, unlike some of the other hospital staff, she wasn't intimidated by him. She knew he didn't have to hang around here, drinking endless cups of bad coffee and eating vending machine food. He could have been sleeping right now, in a comfortable hotel bed, showered and well-fed. But here he was, a portrait of misery and concern and and something else.

"Mr. Mulder's asking for you," she told him gently.

The relief that was evident in his face was mixed with surprise. "I thought they'd both been sedated. Heavily."

She smiled. He really was a nice-looking man when he wasn't frowning. "They were, but he's coming out of it anyway. He must really want to see you."

When the big man began to colour, the nurse turned her back to spare him further discomfort. "Come on," she said. "You should be there when he wakes up."

Silently, rapidly, she led him to the private room where Mulder had been moved from the ICU. She pushed the door open for Skinner and stood back so he could enter. "Take your time," she said, "but keep him calm. He's been through a lot."

"I know," he replied. "Thank you." But he was already heading for the bed, pulling up a chair.

As the nurse backed out of the dimly lit room, she saw Mulder's boss sit down and pick up one of the agent's hands--the one free of the IV drip--with infinite tenderness.

"Fox? I'm here, babe. I'm here," he whispered, trying to disguise the catch in his voice. He scrutinized Mulder's face, a face pink and swollen with first-degree burns. He shuddered when he thought how much worse the injuries would have been if Mulder and Scully hadn't been rescued as quickly as they were.

Skinner felt his lover's palm slide against his own and brought the misshapen, reddened hand up to his trembling lips.

Mulder shifted slightly and forced his eyes open. "Walter." Moving his fingers away from Skinner's mouth, he clumsily caressed the older man's cheek, scratchy with day-old beard. "You feel so real."

Skinner had to swallow. "I *am* real, babe. It's over. You're okay."

The beginnings of a sleepy smile vanished when Mulder felt something other than stubble under his fingertips. "Scully?"

"She's fine. Still sedated, so I haven't looked in on her yet."

Mulder closed his eyes briefly before locking them with Skinner's again. "Then why--why are you crying?"

Skinner blinked the tears back, and gingerly recaptured Mulder's hand in his. "I must be getting soft in the head. I'm just so damned glad we found you in time."

"You were there, weren't you, Walter? I couldn't see you, but I could feel you. Hear you. And I knew that was you grabbing me."

Skinner pocketed his glasses, then wiped his eyes. "I couldn't believe it when I saw your hand coming out of the ground like that. I was so afraid I'd lost you "

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Afraid.

I'm afraid of my own cowardice. And it sickens me.

I'm sitting here, in Boone Country Hospital, holding Fox's hand and watching him sleep. He's normally so pale, but now his beautiful skin is various angry shades of pink and red, the result of a godawful chemical burn. He's naked under the gauzy sheet that comes up to his armpits. His face, neck and hands took the brunt of the damage but, from what I can see, they've covered all of him with the some kind of ointment. The slickness of it makes his face look even puffier, especially the delicate skin around his eyes and those wonderful lips. Shit!

I want to know what the hell happened, and he wanted to tell me in the worst way. But he's pretty drugged up--it's a wonder he came to at all, really--so I'll just have to wait until tomorrow. God knows he needs the rest. But I've got some questions neither the experts at Quantico nor the local authorities can answer. Maybe Fox can, though.

Like why I *had* to get my ass down here. Fast. Why I *knew* I had to.

It wasn't that he was missing very long. But the fact that he hadn't called that night or wouldn't answer his cell phone was worrisome. Before I was fucked over by Alex Krycek earlier this year, Fox was routinely careless about checking in with me. He still has a difficult time believing that anyone should care that much about him. But now that I'm a candidate for an instant heart attack, he calls at least once a day to make sure I'm still breathing.

And then

God, maybe living with him all these months has affected the rational portion of my mind more than I thought. But, in the middle of dictating a letter yesterday, I suddenly developed this incredible gut feeling that he was in trouble. Big trouble. Thank God for my administrative assistant. She got me on the next plane to North Carolina. Even drove me to the airport, I was in such a panic.

It was the most agonizingly slow flight of my life.

When we got to the Brown Mountain site Fox and Dana had been investigating--where the Schiffs' remains were found--it wasn't all that difficult to decide where to start the search. Those hallucinogenic mushrooms were growing all around where they'd parked, and that organic digestive fluid was there, too.

I know this sounds ridiculous, but I started calling out to Fox in my mind. And I--well, I thought I heard him answer. Then I turned and saw a hand clawing its way out of the earth. Christ, I was frantic to get him out. I just wanted to wipe the muck and slime off that precious face and cradle him in my arms.

But I was afraid.

Instead, I passed him off to the others and I kept digging for Dana. Which I should have, granted. But, instead of returning to Fox's side, I helped them put Dana onto the stretcher and carry her to the ambulance. I didn't even insist on riding with my subordinates.

Goddamnit!

I just stood there like an idiot, watching my half-dead lover being taken away. Then someone touched my arm and asked if I wanted a lift to the hospital. That's when I went apeshit. I directed my self-loathing at the medical personnel standing around me. Gave them hell for not attending to my agents properly, for leaving them alone in the back of that ambulance like a couple of plague victims.

Do you want to hear the good part? They didn't even hold my insane behaviour against me. They just figured that I've got a thing for the lovely Agent Scully, so they understood.

They understood shit.

What I understand is what an asshole I am. I should follow the fucking Yellow Brick Road to Oz ASAP and beg the Wizard for some courage.

Sure, now I'm brave as hell, holding my boyfriend's hand and kissing his fingers and stroking his hair in a private hospital room at three in the morning, when there's no one else around.

He and I are becoming so connected to each other. Should I tell him what I did? Or didn't do, rather? Or does he know already? No, I don't think so. Because before he drifted off a few minutes ago, he looked at me with those trusting hazel eyes, told me he loved me, and thanked me for saving him.

As far as I'm concerned, I betrayed him.

And I'm the one who needs saving.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Thank God we're going home today. I'm sick of this place.

My mother's going to freak when she sees me. Remember that episode of "I Love Lucy" when the Ricardos go to Hollywood, and Lucy falls asleep while trying to get a suntan? Well, that's what I look like. Lobster woman. I'm starting to peel now, and some of the blisters have broken. I guess I won't be going on any dates in the near future.

Poor Mulder. He looks even worse because he was underground longer than I was. He's got bandages on his forehead, neck and hands. But the doctor said he'll be all right, won't even scar, as long as he takes care of himself. That's like telling a baby not to cry. But I'll be there to keep an eye on him. And, of course, there's Walter.

Dear Jesus, I can hardly look at the man without feeling ashamed. I mean, he flew down here like a knight in shining armour and found us. The agents from the field office in Raleigh keep going on about how the Assistant Director from DC was down on his knees in the dirt, digging his subordinates out of the ground with his bare hands. They've been teasing me about AD Skinner, saying it's obvious he has a crush on me. Telling the gossips they're dead wrong is easy because I don't have to lie. But I can see why they might think there's something going on. He hasn't left the hospital since we've been here. The nursing staff must have felt sorry for him--or simply admired him--because they set up a cot for him in Mulder's room. Kimberly, his assistant, FedExed some clothes down to him. His lovely suit was ruined, but he doesn't care. All he cares about is Mulder and me. But I don't deserve his loyalty or friendship.

It's strange, but I can remember almost every detail of the hallucinations I had while I was under the influence of those mushroom spores. And I'm appalled at what my mind churned out.

I'd imagined that Mulder had died and that we'd found his skeletal remains, just like the Schiffs. But when I was talking to Walter about it in his office, he acted like a boss who regretted losing a good employee, not like a man who'd lost the most important person in his life. And I didn't question his reaction.

If anything were to really happen to Mulder, I know that Walter would be absolutely devastated. Just watching him these past few days is proof of that. So why did I hallucinate that he was such a cold-hearted son of a bitch?

Later, I believed I was at Mulder's place--his old apartment, not the condo he shares with Walter--to attend his wake. Walter was there, and I thought something weird was going on. I kept demanding that he tell me where Mulder was, what he'd done to him. My God! As if Walter Skinner would ever do anything to hurt Fox Mulder!

The last thing I remember before the cavalry came was thinking that Mulder and I were in Walter's office after escaping from the giant fungal organism, presenting our report. The more we talked about the case, the more uneasy Mulder became. He told me that we hadn't escaped after all, but were still in the cave being ingested. To show me that we were hallucinating, he pulled out his service revolver and fired three shots into Walter's chest. The very thought of Mulder doing something like that almost makes me ill. Of course, Walter didn't die because he wasn't real, just like Mulder said. He just sat there, staring at us, while that yellow digestive secretion oozed out of the bullet holes. The whole thing reminded me of those people--the ones Mulder insists are alien shapeshifters--who appear to bleed green...acid.

So now I'm wondering where these crazy ideas ever came from. Deep in my subconscious, do I still not trust my boss? My best friend's lover? My friend? Am I so jealous of their relationship that I want to paint the man as an enemy? To have Mulder walk away from him?

Oh, please, God, please tell me that I'm more mature, more sane than that.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Walter's in the shower. I'd like to be in there with him, but my bandages would get soaked, and Sue, the day nurse, would give me shit.

Besides, my skin's still pretty raw and sensitive. It even hurts a bit when that man o' mine kisses me--even feather-light, whispy kisses sting--but there's no way in hell I'm gonna tell him that. He's afraid to touch me as it is.

Something's bothering him. He's trying hard to hide it, but I'm getting really good at reading him. I keep asking him if he's started getting threatening phone calls again, if he's having blurred vision or headaches or chest pains, but he swears he's fine.

Maybe he's heard me talking in my sleep the past few nights. Confessing in my sleep, actually. Shit, I hope none of Scully's Catholicism is rubbing off on me.

She told me that the mushroom spores we were exposed to have a chemical structure similar to LSD, and that they also contain an alkaloid that induces a state of narcosis. Now I'm wondering--hoping--that they produce amnesia as well.

Because for most of the time I was under their influence, I seemed to have forgotten about what Walter and I have together. I hallucinated about being back at my Hegel Place hovel, about bringing the Schiffs there, about hiding a fucking Grey there. Yeah, all my favourite obsessions were present and accounted for--aliens, UFO abductees, government conspiracies--except for Walter.

Scully was the focal point of my imaginings. I can't be sure--I haven't discussed it with her yet--but I'm almost positive that she and I shared at least one hallucination, or were maybe drawn into each other's illusions. At one point, near the end, I thought I heard gunshots, but that memory's fuzzy. I'll have to ask her about it sometime. But I know we communicated while we were in that cave, and I don't think it was through normal channels.

Dana Scully and I have a pretty amazing, albeit unconventional, relationship. For the past few years, we've come to know each other so well that we finish each other's sentences, which raises more than a few eyebrows around the Bureau. But this latest experience with Mother "Don't-Fuck-With-Me" Nature has led me to believe that Scully and I have developed some form of telepathy. Even in the ambulance we eschewed mere words.

I want to have that with Walter. And I think it's starting to happen because, just before we were rescued, I thought I could hear him calling me. In my head. So I called back the same way. The next thing I knew, I was being hauled out of the ground by strong, sure hands. Walter's hands. I heard him yelling instructions, telling the others to keep digging, but I felt his presence before he said a word.

So maybe I'm feeling guilty for nothing. Scully and I have been partners and friends for six years. Walter and I have only been together for seven months; we were merely acquaintances, supervisor and subordinate, before then. The two of us have done remarkably well in such a short time. It'll be interesting to make comparisons five-and-a-half years from now.

If we have that long.

Ever since the alien rebels attacked the El Rico Air Base hangar and burned most of the Consortium members to a crisp, not a day has gone by where I pray (in my atheistic way, of course) that Alex Krycek was among the victims. Because if the bastard's dead, chances are that Walter will be around for a long, long time. And I need him to be.

I love Walter and Scully, and I can't envision a life without either one of them. But Walter and I share things Scully and I never will, and if I have to spend the rest of my days convincing him that he's the most important thing in the world to me, then I'll do it. Gladly. I just hope I haven't inadvertently said anything to hurt him. I'll never forgive myself if I have.

The water's stopped, which means he'll be out of the bathroom in a few minutes, and then we'll be heading for the airport.

But when we get home tonight--when it's just the two of us--I'm going to do my damnedest to get him to talk to me. Open up. My new motto is "no secrets," and I intend to enforce it. And I'm going to tell him everything.

That I trust him.

That I need him.

That I want him.

And that I love him.

Above all others.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Fini  
May 12, 1999

  
Archived: April 10, 2001 


End file.
